


Pulling Heaven Down

by Bluethenstaub, PepperPrints



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Paranormal Investigators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluethenstaub/pseuds/Bluethenstaub, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is the best paranormal investigator in London. From minor poltergeist problems to full blown exorcisms, he does it all, satisfaction guaranteed. There’s only one catch: it’s all a con.  At least, that’s what Crowley thinks. A run in with a strange, ethereal competitor threatens to turn Crowley’s world upside down, and before he knows it he finds himself caught up in affairs that might be way, way above his paygrade.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 193
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Pulling Heaven Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Good Omens big bang! I was so very lucky to be able to work with such a talented artist on this project, and I'm grateful to finally share this.

The whole family is waiting outside when the Bentley pulls up in front of the quaint little house in the British countryside. Giving very little care to the parking job, a man with dark glasses and a neatly tailored suit saunters out from behind the wheel. At the passenger side, a woman follows him -- and they both look like somewhat of an anachronism. The man’s suit itself is perhaps inherently timeless, given the slow creeping edge of men’s fashion, but the hat perched neatly over coppery hair looks about fifty years out of date. The same could be said of the elaborate dress his companion wears, with its neat ruffles and soft, puffed shoulders.

Then again, when one hires a pair of occultists to exorcise the demons from their house, they should expect them to look the part.

She’s the one who speaks first, smiling kindly as she extends the hand not currently balancing an overstuffed notebook. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she greets. “I’m Anathema. This is Mr. Crowley.” 

Anathema does the polite ritual of shaking hands and sharing tense smiles. Crowley, however, is already busying himself: craning his head this way and that as he surveys the house and idly kicking at the edge of the patio, as if the whole thing could crumble with just a little push. He goes about like that: knocking his knuckles idly on different sections of the walls, picking away at peeling pieces of paint with his nails. Anathema shoots him a look that Crowley pretends not to notice, clearing her throat loudly.

“What a lovely house you have,” she continues, like a balm for Crowley’s behavior. 

“If it was all lovely, we wouldn’t be here,” Crowley points out, earning another look that he pointedly ignores. Before the family can reply, and he finally addresses them directly. “What room is it?” 

“My room,” offers the smallest voice of the bunch. A girl, no older than eight, stands between his parents meekly. 

Stepping closer, Crowley crouches to make himself more level with her. The effort only edges away a bit of intimidation, given how she tucks herself halfway behind her mother’s skirt.

“Would you be brave enough to tell me what’s happening in your room, ma’am?” Crowley asks, with utmost politeness, as if he’s addressing someone of highest importance, and the girl wiggles a little behind her mother.

“Noises,” she admits sheepishly. “Stuff moves.”

“Sometimes,” her father clarifies.

“All the time,” she corrects in a whisper, like a secret just for Crowley to hear. 

Smirking, Crowley tips his hat to her before rising back to his full height. 

“For everyone’s safety, we’ll have you stay outside,” he instructs, then he waves his hand towards Anathema. “This way.” 

Lifting the edge of her skirt to climb the patio stairs, Anathema offers a smile before she follows Crowley inside. Once the door is shut, her book -- filled with extra pages and sticky notes and dog eared highlights -- thwaps Crowley smartly on the back of his head. 

“You need to work on your people skills,” she chides, and Crowley peers at her from behind his glasses.

“I have great people skills,” Crowley says, his hands reaching into his pockets. Impossibly, in such tightly tailored jacket, he keeps his occult hardware: pieces of chalk, jar of salt, and a vial of water that may still be holy if that sort of thing doesn’t have an expiry date. 

“When you’re cheating people out of their money, you should at least be kinder about it,” she mutters bitterly, but she retrieves her pendulum all the same. 

“ _If_ ,” Crowley offers, as he climbs the stairs, his shoes tapping smartly on each step, “if _we’re_ cheating people. You never know when it could be a real one. And don’t forget; you’re on the business card too: _Occult Specialist Anathema Device_.” 

Scowling after him, Anathema keeps her voice hushed. “I’ve worked with you for three years and every case has involved cheating,” Anathema says sternly. “You never tell people that it’s just mold, or creaky set of stairs, or a wild dog, or… whatever it ends up actually being. You indulge them and you take their money anyway.”

“We,” Crowley reminds again, kicking open each door as they reach the top floor, checking inside. “Besides, what’s the difference? We still perform a service! They’re still getting their peace of mind! Either we fix the leaky faucet, or we pull apart the stairs, or call animal control -- they don’t know the difference between that and an exorcism. If I tell them I’ve purged their houses of the evil spirits that they so desperately believed to be vexing them, then at least they don’t have to be embarrassed about the benign reality of the whole thing.” 

“It’s still lying, Anthony,” she insists, and Crowley rolls his eyes: first name; real trouble now. 

Whipping his head around, he fixes her with a look. “Do you want to go back to the car?” he asks dully. “If it bothers you so much, why do you keep coming along, hm?”

Shifting her posture, Anathema frowns a little. “Well,” she admits sheepishly. “What if… this _is_ the one time it’s real?” 

Crowley grins, and he tilts his head as he regards her. “Plus the paycheck?” he guesses.

“It’s not the paycheck!” Anathema objects.

“Uh-huh,” Crowley drawls disbelievingly, rolling his tongue as he teases her. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the lack of replies to your thoroughly lacking resume… your short, dull, _witchy_ resume.”

There’s one more room at the end of the hall. As they approach, Crowley closes his hand around the doorknob, and turns back to her. “Place your bet?” 

Anathema squares her shoulders, her chin lifting. “A ghost,” she decides firmly.

Tilting his head down disbelievingly, Crowley gives her a skeptical look over his sunglasses.

Heaving a sigh, Anathema crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine!” she relents. “Fine. This is an old house that they just moved into; desperately needs repairs and that’s what the sound is. She’s a little girl who’s somewhere new and scary, and hearing noises at night doesn’t help. She’s afraid of monsters, probably has an overactive imagination and a set of parents who are paranoid enough to believe her.” Shrugging, she adds. “It’s probably mice in the walls.”

“Attagirl,” Crowley praises and throws the door open.

\--

It’s not mice. 

What it is, in fact, is the heater. At night, when the temperature drops, the heater kicks in, and the fan to the youngest daughter’s room grinds against a blockage in such a way that not only causes a bunch of noise, but the grating effort that it makes to spin regardless is forceful enough to knock the decorations off her walls as well.

They make a good effort with it: Anathema draws a circle with chalk on the door, scatters salt here and there, while Crowley climbs into the vents and cleans out a stubborn old piece of bird’s nest that’s causing the fan to grate. It’s simple enough work, until he gets himself stuck on the way back out and gracelessly hollers for Anathema to pull him back out again by his heels.

It leaves him covered in dust, which makes for a good show when they finally emerge from the house. The little girl’s eyes go wide, meekness abandoned as she rushes forward to meet him. 

“Is that from the monster?” she asks, wide eyed and awed, and Crowley nods sagely as he removes his sunglasses, wiping them on the edge of his shirt.

“Demonic ash,” he tells her gravely. “That’s all that’s left of the brute; burned him right up.” Crowley winks before he covers his eyes back up again. “Won’t trouble you again, ma’am.”

The little girl beams, and her parents look nothing short of starstruck. Her father, previously gruff and stiff, nearly trips over himself to shake Crowley’s hand. He’s too forceful about it, and it almost hurts Crowley’s arm.

“I don’t know how we can ever thank you,” he says earnestly.

“Well,” Crowley replies bluntly. “We only take cash.”

\--

Back in their London house, Crowley counts bills over the sound of shouting children. Given the volume of their escapades, he’s lost count for the third time and he groans, shoving the crinkled bills back into the envelope. Emerging from his half of the shared living space, he enters the middle of a sword fight between the dense foliage of his nursery -- which now seems a more apt name than ever, considering the four children running around in it. 

“Really, do we have to be a daycare?” he calls to Anathema, where she sits among her books and sigils, working away. 

“We do, if you want to make rent,” she says flatly, not looking up from her work. “Babysitting pays well these days, you know. Besides, you like kids.”

“I do know; I did the nanny business, and I hate kids,” Crowley says, without an inch of malice, even as he ruffles Brian’s hair as he walks past. 

“Don’t talk about us like we’re not here,” Pepper chastises, from her hiding place behind one of Crowley’s tallest plants. “That discourages proper childhood development.” 

“Sorry,” Crowley replies and he corrects himself by addressing her directly: “I hate you. Is that better?”

“Much,” she says, and she hides herself away again. 

Cute. Crowley smiles despite himself, navigating his way through the battlefield, and Wensleydale narrowly avoids bumping into him. “We put coffee on for you, Mr. Crowley,” he calls as he dodges around his legs, and Crowley feels the endearment flutter a little heavier in his chest.

“I hate you marginally less than the others, Wensleydale,” he assures, and the boy grins proudly in response.

In the kitchen, Adam sits up on the counter with his legs dangling. Right beside him, the coffeemaker hums pleasantly as it brews. “You’re not fighting?” Crowley asks, reaching above him to collect a mug. 

“I’m the referee,” Adam explains, but he’s not watching the game at all. Glancing up from his -- or more accurately, Anathema’s -- magazine, he smiles at him. “Catch any wily demons lately, Mr. Crowley?” 

“Not a one,” Crowley admits honestly, not waiting for the pot to finish before he starts filling his mug. “England’s been rather bereft of demonic activity as of late, Adam Young.” 

“Maybe you’ve scared them all off,” Adam suggests smartly. “You being such a good demon hunter.” 

Crowley smirks at Adam over the rim of his mug, blowing a cool puff of air over his coffee. It’s nothing new that Adam is quite keen on their work here, and makes it clear that he too wants to go into the business. Crowley really ought to discourage him, but would that be any fun? 

“That’s all the girl,” he says, jerking his head back towards Anathema. “She’s right terrifying when she wants to be.”

“Is she?” Adam asks, leaning forward in morbid curiosity.

“Hideously so,” Crowley assures, and Adam grins hugely.

“What are you saying about me?” Anathema calls from the other room, and Crowley clears his throat.

“Nothing,” Crowley calls back, retrieving his lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the top of the fridge, and Anathema -- who has leaned her head in check on them -- raises her voice.

“Crowley, you can’t smoke in here!” she snaps, her voice picking up speed as she rants. “Not when They’re here! Are you out of your mind? Do you want to poison Them all at the tender age of eleven? How utterly idiotic can you be? You used to be a nanny! I pity the poor children who breathed in your secondhand smoke for years. Those companies filled you up with their propaganda and now you’re passing it on to Them! It’s disgusting. It’ll take centuries before we get over that corporate brainwashing. It’s still all over the media: movies and comic books and television shows... Just another sexist, capitalist machine. Go outside!” 

Crowley, who intended to go outside in the first place, gives Adam a look. 

“See what I mean?” 

\--

London is predictably rainy today, which doesn’t lend itself well to Crowley’s afternoon smoke, but it’s all very well. With two hands, he alternates vices: a cigarette in one hand, black coffee in the other. 

Which seems to be a rather poised, determined piece of self presentation. It does lead into a very deliberate Look, which Crowley is quite pleased with -- until his phone rings, and he suddenly has no free hands to answer it. 

“Ah, for the--” Crowley cuts himself off as he nearly spills his coffee in the scramble. In an effort to recover from _that_ near accident, ashes tumble down to singe his fingers, and he nearly drops his cigarette too. “Shit!” Shaking his hand out, he settles for cautiously balancing the mug in the crook of his arm, then he fumbles the phone out of his pocket. 

“Anthony J. Crowley: exorcist and master of the occult,” Crowley answers with smoothness not belonging to a man who’s flailing outside his house in the middle of a crowded street. 

“Uh-huh,” he continues, “uh-huh… _really_?” Wetting his lips, Crowley smirks. “No, no, sir, that does sound very, very serious. It’s a good thing you called me.” 

Fumbling again, Crowley places his cigarette between his lips as he gropes for his pocketbook. Peering at a completely empty calendar, Crowley hums into the phone. 

“It’s a busy time of the year. Very busy. But I could squeeze you in, potentially,” Crowley says innocently, doing another elaborate juggling act in order to pull the pen loose from the folds of the book and scribble in an appointment. “This week? My good sir, you’re in luck. I just so happen to have an opening.”

Squeezed right in between the gaping void of nothing and another yawning stretch of absolute boredom.

“I’ll be in touch with instructions,” he says. “It’s very important. Stay safe until then.” 

Once the call disconnects, Crowley loses the careful balance he’d been maintaining. His cigarette slips from his mouth, and his instinctive reaction to grab it sends his coffee spilling down his chest, followed by the triumphant fall of his pocketbook into a neat little puddle in the corner of the street. 

Crowley sighs. At least he didn’t drop his phone.

When he bends to collect his book, a pair of neatly manicured hands beat him to it. Crowley pauses, straightening up to regard the remarkably handsome stranger properly as he gives the soaked pages a little shake. 

“Dreadful luck, my dear boy,” the man says, and immediately there’s at least ten things about him that jump out. One would be the fact that a man who looks (at most) maybe two years older than himself is calling him ‘boy’, two would be the equally puzzling addition of ‘my dear’ on top of that, three would be the oddity of his clothing, four is pristine condition of his hands, five is how he smells like nothing else Crowley has ever encountered before, six would be the unbearably attractive curve of his jaw, not to mention the rest of him, and… it goes on and on.

But the main thing that catches Crowley’s attention is how he doesn’t look in the least bit damp. It’s been raining on and off all day, and even in his short smoke break, Crowley is already feeling his socks getting a bit soggy. This man, however, doesn’t look like his hair is even slightly dewy. 

Maybe he just missed the rain. Crowley actually doesn’t feel it pattering down on his hair anymore; though the puddles in the road ripple like the weather persists in spitting down droplets. So why doesn’t he feel it?

Odd. Odder still is how he helps himself to a glance at Crowley’s pocketbook, thumbing through its damp pages. 

“Oh, I thought this might be a novel,” he says, disappointment clear in his tone, and Crowley feels heat rise up his neck.

“Give me that,” Crowley snaps impatiently, snatching the soaked scheduler back. “You usually just help yourself to people’s private business, huh? I’m a very busy man.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the man says earnestly, and it does look as if he means it, but also seems that he can’t help but add: “are you, though?” He leans forward a little, his face a mild wince of what may be sympathy. “There did seem to be a lot of empty pages.”

That heat on Crowley’s skin spreads up to his ears, and he scowls from behind his sunglasses. “Yes, I am,” he insists hotly, tucking his book away before the man can investigate further to prove him wrong. “Even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t give you permission to poke around in people’s books like it’s your business.”

“Oh, it is my business,” the man says, only seeming to realize how it sounds once it leaves his mouth. Hurriedly, he adds: “Books, I mean! Books are my business. I run a bookshop.”

Huh. Crowley fumbles for his lighter, trying to reignite his now damp cigarette. “No interest to me; I don’t read books,” he says, and the man looks at him like he’d just been slapped.

“You don’t read books?” he repeats, aghast. “My dear fellow, how do you not read books?” 

“Oh, I’m quite illiterate, really,” Crowley lies flatly, thumb clicking over his lighter over and over. “Like my father before me, and my mother died before she could pass on the skill.”

True, sincere horror and shame wraps itself around the man’s handsome face -- then the pieces start to add up. Like the very simple fact that he’d just picked up a book that Crowley had quite explicitly been writing in. His wide, horrified eyes turn into a sharp, cold glare instead.

“You’re making fun of me,” he states bluntly. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley counters coolly. What’s much less cool, however, is how he continuously fails to light his cigarette. “Agh!” Crowley utters, shaking the thing uselessly before he tries again. 

“You know,” the man adds. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“Oh?” Crowley intones, his patience thinning. “I should make myself more busy. I should read. I shouldn’t smoke. Any more suggestions from a stranger in the middle of London? Really, do I have a sign on my head that solicits free, unwanted advice?”

The man just looks at him for a moment. His expression is somehow hard to puzzle out: he heaves a breath, and something hides in the corner of his mouth that Crowley can’t quite put his finger on.

The man clears his throat. There’s a straightening of his shoulders, his chin held a little higher, and Crowley can almost feel something in the atmosphere shift around them as the man speaks.

“May the vice never hurt you,” he says, and Crowley feels--

… funny, somehow.

Crowley blinks, almost feeling like he’s lost time for a moment. The man is smiling at him, and he gives a little bow of his head before he carries on his way. Crowley finds himself stuck, staring after him as he leaves, and the next time he flicks the lighter, the spark connects.

Lighting his cigarette, Crowley takes another drag and when he looks up, the clouds have parted to reveal a clear, sunshiny day. 

“Would you look at that.”

\--

“So, I’ve been looking into this new job,” Anathema starts when they leave the grocery store. “With the sitting ghost.”

“Night hag,” Crowley corrects, leaning over the bars of the cart rather dramatically as they roam back towards the Bentley. “But yes, what about it?”

Lips pursing, Anathema glances back at him. “I don’t like that term,” she tells him simply. “It’s born out of--”

Waving his hand, Crowley cuts her off. “Yes, yes, sexism and the demonization of older women with agency, I know,” Crowley sighs patiently. “Fine. Yes: the job sounds like a sitting ghost, but it’s probably just sleep paralysis.” 

Opening the passenger door, Anathema frowns. “That’s what I mean; it’s tricky,” she says, beginning to load the car up. There’s at least three bags full of treats that are both indulgent and sugary for the next time the Them darken their door. “If it’s just sleep paralysis, how do we cure that?” 

“Not sure we can,” Crowley admits, scratching idly at his jaw. “Maybe cross your fingers for a demon.”

“I’m always crossing my fingers for a demon,” Anathema says, only seeming to realize how it sounds when Crowley raises his eyebrows at her. Cheeks colouring, Anathema adds: “you know what I mean. It’s -- professional curiosity.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley intones dryly. Reaching down, he collects the rest of the bags. They’re full of boxes of salt. Lots and lots of salt. “It’ll be fine. Half of it’s psychological anyway, you know. If we go in and perform an exorcism, it’s like a rush of endorphins. They’ll be sleeping like a baby after that.” 

“Maybe,” Anathema allows hesitantly, settling into her seat. “I just don’t like it, that’s all.” As Crowley climbs in opposite of her, she narrows her eyes at him. “Crowley. The cart--”

But he’s already driving away without bothering to return it. “I feel like carry-out,” he announces, pointedly ignoring her protests. “That sandwich place you like near the house. Wanna call it in? My treat.”

Smoothed over from her annoyance about common courtesies with the promise of tequila lime turkey and avocado spread, Anathema picks up her phone without another complaint. Really, it ought to be ready for pick up by the time they arrive, but Crowley drives through London with very little regard for speed limits, and has to wait by the counter for the chefs to finish up.

Which is fine, in Crowley’s books. He isn’t in any hurry, and the atmosphere of the restaurant is comfortable enough. If he didn’t have groceries in the car, he might’ve just considered dining in. It’s a nice place to just sit and waste time… 

Or read.

Crowley blinks. It takes several seconds before he really registers what he’s looking at, and he actually lowers his sunglasses to confirm for sure. On the other side of the restaurant, sitting neatly at a table all by his lonesome, is the man he met in the rain. He’s got a book in one hand, while the other cradles his chin, a cup of tea steaming pleasantly at his elbow. That aspect might not last long, however, since he looks utterly enraptured by whatever it is he’s reading, and his tea might soon grow cold if he doesn’t snap to it. 

Huh. Crowley raises his glasses again, frowning to himself. He almost moves from his place at the counter, something in the back of his knees itching to go and occupy the empty chair across from him. But that’s bizarre, isn’t it? Harassment, really. Crowley shouldn’t be so stupid.

Instead, he cocks his head, trying to get a glimpse of the cover of the book that’s so captured his attention. 

“Order’s up,” the girl behind the counter greets, smiling at him as he jolts back to himself. “Thanks for your patience!”

Crowley leaves a nice tip, exiting the shop before he can do something stupid, and as he hands the boxes to Anathema to hold while he drives, a question blurts from his mouth.

“Hey. Have you ever read Jules Verne?” 

\--

The most immediately worrying thing is that there’s no one waiting when they pull up to the new job. Crowley’s very important instructions generally leads with that guideline: be outside when we’re coming. People usually listen, since they’re scared of their house already, and it works in Crowley’s favour since it means he can mess around in their space with precious little intervention.

But no one’s outside, and Crowley’s frown deepens. 

“Maybe they forgot,” Anathema offers as they exit the car, and Crowley doesn’t share the optimism.

Something rubs him the wrong way. He doesn’t know what, but it raises the hair on the back of his neck. When they reach the door, Crowley catches Anathema’s wrist before she knocks, reaching out and turning the knob himself.

It’s not locked, and barely creaks when he opens it, and Anathema hisses in response. “Crowley, we can’t just walk into someone’s house!” 

“Sh,” he utters quietly, abruptly very grave, and something heavy settles into the pit of his stomach.

He doesn’t know what to call the strange, overwhelming sensation that fills his chest up. It almost feels like dread, and some old, feral instinct that’s buried back in his brain from before time even began. Something tells him to run, but he pushes forward instead. 

Careful with his steps, Crowley edges inside. The deeper they get into the house, he begins to hear voices, and he wishes that felt reassuring rather than condemning. It’s coming from the kitchen, and Crowley very carefully nudges the door open--

To reveal the whole family, sitting merrily around the table, with a hot pot of tea being shared between them. The family resemblance is striking: all with sets of raven hair… except their guest, who is rather the opposite, and laughing contently over his teacup.

Crowley’s eyes widen at the sight of him, and something twists in his gut. 

“Oh!” the father gasps at the sight of them. “Is this Mr. Crowley?” 

Crowley is frozen still where he stands, unable to even form a response, so Anathema surges forward, her hand clasping tight on Crowley’s arm. “Yes!” she declares. “We’re so terribly sorry -- I’m Anathema and this is Mr. Crowley, yes. We didn’t mean to disturb you… we didn’t see you outside, and I’m afraid to admit we feared the worst! Now that seems rather silly, doesn’t it?” 

Anathema forces a good-natured laugh, and nudges Crowley unkindly in his ribs, as subtle as she can manage, but Crowley doesn’t even wince. 

He’s busy staring at the man at the other end of the table. The man who he saw in the rain, the one with his nose in a book. 

The man who looks very surprised to see him.

“Oh, this must seem very silly indeed,” the father says, laughing with Anathema. “When Mr. Fell arrived, he got straight to work, so I thought he was one of your people! I ought to have called and let you know, but I assumed you worked together.” 

_Mr. Fell._ Crowley stares at him, something fiery rising up into his throat. Is that what this is? 

“Oh… no, no we don’t work together,” Anathema manages awkwardly, idly smoothing out the folds of her dress. She smiles, though Crowley can hear the nerves edging into her voice. “Are you… also an occultist, Mr. Fell?” 

“Oh, my dear girl, no,” the man laughs. “Not in that definition of the word, I should say. I’m something of a good Samaritan, and I heard of this dear family’s plight from the local pastor.” He waves his hand a little, indicating to the family surrounding him. “So I thought I might step in. Did you have the same idea?” 

Crowley can’t stop staring at him. With his pale, pale hair and his soft smile and the ringing tune that makes up his voice. Fell smiles at him and suddenly, Crowley feels very close to seething.

“What a coincidence,” Mr. Fell says, smiling sweetly over the rim of his teacup, and Crowley’s hands curl into fists. 

“I thought books were your business,” Crowley says, each word forced out from between his teeth in a slow, laborious grind. 

“Oh, they are,” Fell says merrily. “I do this for pleasure.” 

Somehow, that’s even more devastating than the man stealing money from him. 

“Would you like to sit?” the mother invites, her relief from whatever trickery Fell performed making her incredibly generous as a hostess. “I could make another pot of tea.” 

“No, thank you,” Crowley replies quickly, and it’s his turn to grab Anathema by the arm. “We’d best be off. Lots of other work to do, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” Fell says smilingly. “With your busy schedule.” 

To his credit, Crowley keeps his mouth shut. As they leave, he says nothing at all. In fact, he barely even breathes until they’re out the door and safely settled into the Bentley. Once the doors close, however, he grabs tight on the steering wheel, and lets out a wild, guttural scream. 

\--

Back in their London house, Crowley paces back and forth with enough determination to grind a dip into the floor. Embarrassment burns in the back of his throat, along with an incoherent rage that he has no outlet for. 

“He played me,” Crowley utters, still disbelieving even as he rants and raves. “He played me at my own game! And I didn’t even think, not even for one second--”

“You don’t know that,” Anathema tries gently, her hands anxiously clasped in her lap as she watches Crowley go from one end of the hall to the other. “It could be a coincidence. Like he said.”

“Like he said,” mocks Crowley in a snarl, rolling his head. “Oh, pip pip, what a coincidence, my dear boy!” Growling, Crowley takes a heavy drag of the cigarette that Anathema isn’t bold enough to chastise him for, even indoors. 

“He must have been watching us long before he took my scheduler,” Crowley continues, waving his hand about, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. “Then he took his chance, saw my appointment, and he beat us to it. I was so, so stupid! The oldest trick in the book and I fell for it...” 

Anathema tilts her head to one side. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks. 

Crowley pauses. Strictly speaking, Anathema’s business has never been in conning people; it’s very insistently been about witchcraft. Crowley, however, knows his tricks. Like how a pair of pretty eyes and a nice smile goes a long, long way with a sucker.

That’s him: Anthony Just-take-my-money-away-bright-eyes Crowley. 

“Never mind,” he mutters.

Anathema frowns, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she thinks. “But you know,” she reminds. “He did it for charity.” 

“Huh?” intones Crowley artlessly.

“He didn’t take their money!” she repeats. “What would be the point of conning you out of a job if he’s not even getting paid for it?” 

Crowley pauses, sucking on his cigarette, and he wonders.

“He told you he had a bookshop,” she continues, moving over to the desk and tapping the computer into life. “Did you look him up?”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise. He’s not the most tech savvy person, to put it lightly, if the very outdated website for their line of business isn’t enough indication. Anathema protests frequently to get it updated, claiming that it belongs in the 90s, but Crowley always found the pixelated wing-flapping bat cursor to be a nice touch.

A quick search, and she’s pulled up the address. It’s a legitimate business, and his name is right in the title. Apart from an odd, disdainful review, it all seems remarkably average. 

“Do you really think he’s a con man?” Anathema asks skeptically, and Crowley finds himself unsure.

“He’s… something,” he settles on vaguely.

He’s just going to have to find out _what_.

\--

Once he’s looking for it, Crowley isn’t sure how he never noticed the bookshop before. He peers up at it from the outside, scrutinizing, before he makes his way inside. The bell on the door dings when he opens it, but no one comes to greet him in response. That’s all right by him. He can take his time to look around.

There’s a particular smell about old books that immediately engulfs him. The shelves are overflowing, practically bursting at the seams, and Crowley lets out an appreciative whistle despite himself. Objectively, the chaos should be an off-putting thing, but instead it’s somehow homey. 

Peering as he wanders among the shelves, he tries to decode the order of the whole thing. Are they by genre or simply alphabetized all around? If the latter is the case, it may take him awhile before he gets toward the end -- most particularly V for Verne. 

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry but we’re quite closed,” says a voice at long last, hurrying over to meet him. “I could’ve sworn that I locked--”

Fell cuts himself short when he actually lays eyes on him -- eyes that go wide very tellingly before he reigns himself into a more composed expression. “Oh, hello again,” he greets, softer than Crowley expects. 

“Hello,” replies Crowley dryly, trailing his fingers along the spines of countless books as he wanders down the aisle. “ _Again_.” He hisses on the word, forcing it out from between his teeth. “How’s business?” 

“Oh, quite average,” Fell replies civilly, smiling at him. “Why, how’s yours--”

“Lousy,” Crowley interrupts, before Fell can even finish returning the polite smalltalk. “Can you imagine why?”

Straightening his shoulders, Fell plays coy. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean,” he says, but Crowley persists.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea either,” he agrees, stalking around the shelves of Fell’s shop. “About you, I mean.” 

“About me?” Fell repeats, and he chuckles a little. “My dear--”

There it is again, and Crowley has to cut him off before he continues. “What are you playing at, mh?” Crowley asks outright, pulling out the odd book here and there to examine their covers. As he does, just places them back wherever he pleases, not anywhere near in proper order, just to see how much it pushes Fell’s buttons. “It’s not about the money, clearly, since you didn’t ask for anything.”

“I told you,” Fell reminds, following after Crowley almost sheepishly, and fixing the order of the books in his wake. “I did it--”

“As a good Samaritan, yeah,” Crowley recalls, flipping through a book and pretending to pay any sort of attention to its contents. “Thing is, I contacted the church that poor, confused family attends and they’d never heard of you. Much less sent you on a holy mission, Mr. Fell.” 

Tossing the book at him, Crowley takes a small delight in how Fell fumbles a little before he catches it. “So, what’s really going on?” Crowley asks bluntly. “And how did you convince those people that their son doesn’t actually have sleep paralysis?” 

“Sleep paralysis?” Fell parrots, and he narrows his eyes, looking Crowley up and down. “I’m sorry… I thought you were an occultist?” 

Oh, that’s rich. Crowley’s whole body moves on a tilt, regarding Fell disbelievingly. “Don’t try to play dumb with me,” he states firmly. “You already conned me once, and you’re not going to do it again, all right? Can we just talk to each other like professionals here?” 

“I’m sorry,” Fell says cautiously, coming closer with his hand held tentatively forward as if to halt him. “Just a moment. I was under the impression that you… believed in demons, and spirits, and the like.”

“Yeah, and Santa Claus and the tooth fairy and in the idea that politics are a balanced system,” drawls Crowley flatly. “Stop stalling. Spill: how did you sell it to them?” 

“I exorcised the sitting ghost,” Fell says, with such utmost sincerity that Crowley almost believes it. He stares at him, lingering, and on some stupid impulse he corrects:

“Night hag.”

Wincing, Fell makes a face. “That term is a bit sexist these days.”

Oh for the love of--

Crowley scowls at him from behind his sunglasses. The start of several half formed sentences die on his lips, resulting in a series of confused noises. Buying himself some time, Crowley fumbles into his pockets, and puts a cigarette into his gaping mouth instead.

Crowley can’t help the swell of amusement when Fell puffs up like an offended bird, his eyes suddenly seeming much brighter than before.

“My dear boy,” he says slowly, icily now, in a way that makes the endearment sound more like a slur. “I should hope you’re not entertaining the idea of lighting that in here.”

Smirking, Crowley pulls his lighter out. “Speak honestly to me then,” he challenges, taking another step closer to him. 

Fell’s whole body tightens up, but to his credit, he doesn’t back away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His thumb rolls, flame sparking into life, and Crowley hovers it dangerously close to the edge of his cigarette. “You do,” he counters coldly.

“I --” Fell stammers, looking somewhere between flustered and infuriated. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Not good enough. Crowley makes his gamble, lighting his cigarette and taking one final step. That last pace puts him right in Fell’s personal space, which works quite in Crowley’s favour, as he takes a deep drag of his cigarette and exhales it directly into Fell’s face.

He’s escorted out by a very tight grip on his arm, and Fell proves himself to be much stronger than Crowley initially took him for. Just shy of tossing him out into the street, Fell slams the door behind him, and Crowley hears the lock click firmly into place -- determined not to make the same mistake twice, it seems. 

“Good talking to you!” Crowley calls back, and he smirks to himself as he carries down the street. Maybe he leaves without an answer, but what he does leave with is a small, worn copy of a book tucked slyly into the inside of his jacket, found on one of the last shelves he rustled through, marked with V for Verne. 

\--

While he comes back from his encounter with Fell empty handed (not including one battered copy of _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ ), Crowley doesn’t get much time to linger on the mystery of the man. When he returns home, there’s a case waiting for him, and before he can even get his act together for that one, the phone rings with someone new.

Crowley hasn’t had two cases in one month, much less two in one week -- then two turns to three, and Crowley for once isn’t lying about the space in his scheduler. 

On Monday, they chase a ghost (pigeons) from an attic. On Wednesday, they purify a haunted (moldy) basement. On Friday, they exorcise a demon from a grandfather whose spitting vitriol was likely due to old age more than demonic possession. Still, business is booming and it doesn’t show signs of slowing, and Fell hasn’t interfered again.

The sudden burst of activity should make their work seem rushed, but it’s actually rather the opposite. They seem to really hit a stride when they’re doing jobs back-to-back. 

Back at home, while Crowley starts laying out their earnings, Anathema fusses with her hands. Crowley does his best to ignore her, because he knows what she’s going to say even before it leaves her mouth.

“Don’t you think it’s funny?” she asks, like the words break out of her chest.

“Nooo,” Crowley insists, his mouth a round little ‘o’ as he drags out the sound. “I think it’s quite lucrative, actually.” 

Sliding into the seat opposite of him, Anathema places her hands on the table. “Listen,” she continues urgently. “The phone keeps ringing. We keep getting emails -- and I think our website actually physically can’t endure the traffic it’s getting. And these jobs we’re getting… you know.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley insists innocently.

“Crowley,” Anathema entreats, and he fixes her with a look.

“What? Do you really have to spoil a good thing?” Crowley asks defeatedly, not exasperated at her, really, but upset at his own pleasant denial being forced out into the open. “We’ve been doing great! The show’s better than it’s ever been!” He gestures proudly towards her. “Like today: that was a nice trick you did with the lights flickering. Really brought up the atmosphere.” 

Anathema narrows her eyes across from him, her voice a little bit unsteady. “See. I, um,” she says. “I thought _you_ did that.” 

Crowley just stares at her for a moment, noting the paleness of her cheeks, and he raises a disapproving finger. “No!” he says sharply. “No. You’re getting in too deep. You’re letting it get in your head. Superstition is infectious and all it’s taken is a busy week for you to start seeing ghosts? Absolutely not. Snap out of it.” 

The expression on Anathema’s face is not very convincing. 

“Don’t,” he warns again, very seriously. “We have a job tomorrow and you better be focused.”

“I am,” she declares, nodding. “Never been more focused. It won’t get in the way of my work.”

Crowley scowls at her, utterly unconvinced. How someone like her can be so easily lured in is beyond him. She’s known Crowley long enough, hasn’t she? Doesn’t it instill from doubt in her? Crowley himself certainly isn’t so susceptible. 

Unbidden, the image of Fell comes into his head: bright and smiling and utterly distracting. 

What a pair they make. 

\--

When they pull up to the next house, Crowley worries that their good fortune has finally run out. As if the mere thought of Fell somehow spontaneously brought him into existence, once again, there’s no one waiting outside the house. 

More unsettlingly, however, is the front door being left ajar, and the noises coming from within once they’re close enough to hear it. There’s someone screaming, muffled but undeniable, and Crowley’s heart rattles against his ribs. 

“Crowley!” Anathema calls as he rushes inside without a single inch of hesitation. Lifting her dress up, she rushes in after him. “Crowley, wait--!” 

He doesn’t. He whips his head around, quickly determining which direction will take him to the basement and moving as quickly as he can to get there. It’s only when he hits the bottom of the stairs that Anathema catches up to him, grabbing tight before he can reach the sealed door. Sound rattles behind it: vague thudding and something breaking, and a voice that is utterly unmistakable. 

Of course. 

“Fell’s here?” Anathema murmurs, and her hand squeezes down on his upper arm. “Crowley. Forget it. Let’s go.” 

“No,” he utters without even meaning it at first. He stares at the door, as if transfixed, focusing on how it rattles at its hinges, and the bright light that creeps through its edges. 

Shaking her off, Crowley forces himself forward. Anathema calls out another pleading warning but Crowley already has his hands on the door, throwing it open to reveal--

Fell, standing tall and illuminated by the sigil at his feet. The script is intricate, flawless, and certainly not written in any sort of chalk Crowley has ever encountered in his life. It gleams a brilliant white light, that the man in the room recoils from with obvious malice, while the glow seems to fill Fell up like a star. 

His coat moves, lifted as if there’s a wind that whips around him, and his eyes look determined in a way Crowley has never seen before. His eyes, which turn towards him, and widen--

So many eyes. It hits Crowley like a punch at the base of his skull and he suddenly feels drunk. Fell stares at him with fifty eyes, on his face, his hands, his wings-- he has wings, stretching up towards the ceiling, and they _shine_...

He’s beautiful, is the one stupid thought that fills up Crowley’s emptying head, he’s so, so beautiful--

“You need to get out!” Fell cries, imploring rather than demanding, and Crowley is stuck staring at him. “It’s dangerous--” 

The warning doesn’t even reach Crowley’s ears. Wincing, the man (man?) reaches for him, and he cups Crowley’s face so gently--

So gently, but it burns, why does it burn? Then the room shifts, like it did when they first met, when Fell stopped the rain… that had been it, right? Fell stopped the rain and he took the tar out of his lungs and put up a wall so it would never stick again and--

Fell smiles, and he looks like the sun, but his voice is simultaneously soft yet thunderous when he commands:

“ _Begone_.”

\--

Back in his bed in the London house, Crowley sits up so sharply that Anathema jumps and nearly drops her book. 

“Crowley!” she gasps, fumbling before she approaches his bed. The chair she’s dragged in here looks utterly misplaced next to the furnishings of Crowley’s room: a soft, plush, floral thing that she’s used to keep a vigil over him. “Oh, I was getting worried--”

“Wh--” Crowley starts artlessly, then he uselessly flops back against his pillows again. Wincing, he closes his eyes, paying for the swift movement with sudden nausea. “What time is it?”

“Well, it’s tomorrow,” Anathema explains, and Crowley opens one eye to peer suspiciously at her. “I’m serious.”

“It can’t be tomorrow,” he insists, craning his head around as if the room will hold some answers for him. “What happened?”

Anathema clears her throat. “Well,” she starts, removing her glasses and folding them up. Her hands tremble a little with the motion. “You interrupted Fell, and you uh…”

Anathema suddenly seems to forget how to speak. She looks around the room, hoping for anything in particular to distract her, but no excuse rises to her lips. Crowley stares at her, and Anathema winces as she finishes. “You... fainted.”

“I _what_?!” Crowley hisses, his voice low and near venomous, and Anathema recoils. 

“You fainted!” Anathema repeats firmly, her cheeks flushing. “And you can’t get mad at me about it! I’m not the one who made you faint; Fell did.” 

Anathema seems to only realize how it sounds after she said it, since her eyes widen, and Crowley feels dangerously close to snapping.

“Look, you-- you interrupted him and… you fainted, so.. I panicked! So it’s a bit fuzzy. But then we were outside. So, at some point I must have I taken you outside.” She rambles now that she’s gotten started, wringing her hands. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t wake up, so I drove us home. I almost took you to the hospital but I knew you’d hate that and I knew you’d hate me driving the Bentley even more but I had to…” 

“Ssh,” Crowley utters, holding up a hand to stall her. “I don’t want to hear any more.” His pride can only endure so much. Shuffling back under his blankets, he hides away from her. “That’s… quite enough humiliation, thank you.” 

Anathema lingers, and Crowley does his best to ignore her, but she speaks. “There’s something else.”

Of course there is. Crowley pokes his head out from under the sheets, begrudgingly, and she flusters.

“I don’t know where it came from,” she adds carefully. “From Fell, I assume. One of his props. His production value is… way above ours, obviously.”

Right. Production value. Crowley closes his eyes, and the image of Fell rises to him: bright and winged and looking at him with a hundred eyes--

When he opens his eyes again, Anathema has produced a pocket mirror. Reluctantly, Crowley takes it, and when he looks at himself… a burn is laid into the skin in front of his ear, pink and shiny and looking ready to blister. 

Right where Fell rested his fingers, where he cupped Crowley’s cheek so gently… 

Tapping it lightly with his fingertips, he hisses a little, and Anathema winces sympathetically. 

“It should heal well?” she offers hopefully, and Crowley somehow doesn’t share the optimism. 

\--

The bell on the door of Fell’s bookshop rings obnoxiously when Crowley bursts in. There’s a single customer present, in the middle of a conversation with the owner himself, and Crowley pays very little mind to whatever matter they’re debating as he stalks straight toward them. 

“Oh, hello,” Fell greets softly, like seeing Crowley is… Crowley doesn’t know. Like it’s somehow touching; a pleasant surprise even now. Crowley isn’t sure how he feels about that. “You’ll have to wait a moment, I’m in the middle of--” 

Crowley doesn’t wait for him to finish. He snatches the book right out of the customer’s hands, brandishing it. “He’s trying to buy this? Fine. Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it. Can you match that? No?” The man stutters, too taken off guard to answer, so Crowley doesn’t give him the chance. “Then get lost.”

The man looks at Fell, as if expecting him to argue on his behalf. When he doesn’t, he clears his throat, and Fell finally speaks.

“Well, _can_ you match it?” he asks innocently. 

The man doesn’t answer; he settles for scowling and he leaves the shop without another word. Fell watches him go with a huge grin, and Crowley peers at the cover of the book. Mary Shelley.

“Oh! Oh, thank you,” Fell says enthusiastically, holding his hands out for the book. “He was quite determined to make a purchase… you see, it’s not only old; there’s an error on the title page, and her last name is missing the second ‘e’! It’s really quite a rarity, so… oh, I’m rambling, but I would’ve just _loathed_ to part from it.”

Rather than return the book to Fell’s waiting hands, Crowley pulls it back, tucking it neatly against his own chest. “Oh, you certainly are going to part from it,” Crowley challenges flatly. “One way or the other. If you don’t start answering some questions.”

That seems to startle a laugh out of Fell, and he glances at Crowley disbelievingly. “Questions? What sort of questions?” he asks innocently, and Crowley’s grip on the book tightens. 

“Yesterday. The exorcism. What happened? What was that?” he counters, each statement made with firm emphasis. “What did you do to me?”

“Do to you?” parrots Fell, and he tries to smile, but it flickers in the corners of his mouth. “I... I’m afraid I don’t understand?”

Groaning in frustration, Crowley spreads his arms wide. “Come on! Don’t play stupid; it really isn’t flattering. I’m holding Mary missing-the-second-e Shelley hostage here, so you could offer me the decency of not talking to me like I’m an idiot.” 

There’s something racing behind Fell’s eyes, and his gaze narrows as he looks him up and down. “You… remember that?” he asks cautiously, then in an undertone he continues, more to himself than to Crowley. “You really shouldn’t have remembered that… ” 

Fell will regret it, though, since that’s all Crowley needs to latch his claws into. “I do!” he declares loudly. “I do remember. I remember--”

Abruptly, he cuts himself off. What are the chances of him sounding like Anathema did, just a few days ago? Crowley had chided her for doing the exact thing he’s doing now… except Crowley is the one playing into a conman’s hand, rather than venting to a friend.

Is that what it is, though? Could any amount of theatrics create what Crowley saw in that basement? 

“Oh,” says Fell in realization, his whole posture softening. Fell moves as if he intends to reach for him, then thinks better of it, his fingers curling into a fist. “Your face…”

In lieu of it, Crowley touches his own singed cheek, and he winces a little. “Yeah,” he says flatly, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Where did that come from, hm?”

Shamefully, Fell lowers his eyes. “Perhaps one of your… parlour tricks backfired,” he offers, though he smothers a wince; he clearly isn’t the biggest fan of lying, which explains why he’s so rotten at it. 

Really, how did Crowley mistake him for a con man? He wears guilt right on his sleeve. 

The door rings, and Fell perks up. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” he says quickly, hurrying to the door and grasping it before it can fully open. “You’ll have to come back another time; we’re closing up as we speak.”

“Closing?” the woman repeats skeptically. “But the sign says…”

“Didn’t you hear him?” Crowley drawls, cocking his head to one side. “ _Begone_.”

Fell freezes, glancing at Crowley over his shoulder with wide eyes, then he scowls to himself as he closes the door and puts the lock in place. When he turns back towards Crowley, his expression is grave.

“You shouldn’t remember that,” he repeats steadily.

“But I do,” Crowley states plainly. 

“You shouldn’t,” he insists, stepping closer. “I gave you a dream instead.” 

Even though it only raises more questions, instead of answering them, Crowley finds himself struck by the statement. There’s something so simple in the very notion, so forward and desperately heartfelt, to give him a _dream_ like a gift. Despite himself, it _aches_ in his chest, and his entire posture slumps. 

“What… would it have been about?” he asks quietly, unable to help himself, and Fell smiles weakly.

“Something lovely. Whatever you would’ve liked best,” he says simply, and Crowley-- 

Crowley realizes and he almost laughs. No wonder it didn’t work. ‘Whatever he would’ve liked best’... it wouldn’t have erased that image of Fell, since _that_ sight, without question, is still the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

Crowley closes his eyes briefly, bringing himself back to focus. 

“What are you?” he asks bluntly. “Really?” 

Fell squirms a little where he stands, shifting his weight. “I’m afraid it isn’t that simple,” he begins warily. 

“Okay,” Crowley replies, and he nods a little. This has gone on long enough, and he isn’t going to leave unsatisfied this time. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he retrieves his lighter, and Fell perks up.

“Please don’t try to smoke again,” he implores, and Crowley shakes his head.

“No, this is worse,” he threatens lowly. He flicks his thumb until the sparks connect and he hovers Mary Shelley -- minus one ‘e’ -- over the light. 

“Oh-- please, don’t--!” Fell chokes, thrown somewhere between desperation and mangled fury. “You just can’t…”

“Then tell me what you are,” Crowley demands.

“You wouldn’t,” Fell argues, sounding unconvinced, and Crowley holds his ground.

“I would,” he insists, lowering the book just an inch closer, and that proves to be too much. 

“Wait, wait!” Fell splutters, and the words start tumbling out of him, as if he can’t stop now that he’s started. “Please! Please. I’m the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the representative for Heaven here on Earth and, my dear boy, even if I can change it back, if you burn that book I should never forgive you.” 

Crowley almost drops the lighter altogether. He’s an angel…?

“That can’t be,” Crowley utters softly, and even as he says it, he knows he’s lying to himself.

_An Angel._

“Oh dear,” he utters quietly, as if he only now realizes what he’s done. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

Crowley doesn’t drop the lighter, but he’s suddenly afraid his whole body might drop too. He stares at Fell-- _Aziraphale_ , and he feels lightheaded. The room swims, and he can’t tell if it’s his imagination, if when he’s drifting out of focus, he can start to see him for what he really is: haloed and winged and watching him with countless eyes… 

“All right,” Aziraphale continues slowly, cautiously stepping closer. Gingerly, he takes the book back from Crowley’s slack grip, which is a wise move, considering how close he is to dropping it. “Listen. Oh, please don’t panic… um.” He flusters, glancing around himself as if to find some helpful cue between the bookshelves. With the hand not carefully cradling Shelley, he tries to reach for Crowley. “Be -- be not afraid…!” 

But the coaxing really just encourages the opposite. Crowley backs away from him, slowly to start, before he picks up speed. Reaching behind him, he fumbles for the door handle, and barely hears Aziraphale’s pleas for him to wait as he scrambles out the door and into the busy London streets.

It’s only later, once the hysteria levels out, that Crowley realizes that he watched Aziraphale lock the shop door. Try as he might, he can’t remember if he actually managed to unconsciously turn the deadbolt in the middle of his panicked groping, or if there’s something he missed -- as if his desperation to flee could’ve willed the door into opening at his very touch.

\--

“Oh my God,” Anathema utters from the doorway. “Crowley?” 

Crowley has always worked with a certain sort of chaos, but the mess that Anathema walks into is an exceptional disaster. There’s barely an inch of the floor exposed as he piles various papers and texts out in a haphazard pattern. He flips through the books seemingly at random, checking the subjects against one another, making notes here, scribing a sigil for future reference there. He has no less than six books on the go, scattered around his feet, bookmarked in odd places or tagged with a telling ‘?’. Really, it’s a small wonder that he notices her at all, given how he’s been at least five hours deep into this feverish endeavour. 

“Oh good, you’re back,” Crowley says, speaking very, very fast. It’s a combination of the coffee and the sheer, wild adrenaline. “I took some of your books. Hope you don’t mind.”

When Anathema first came on, she was bright-eyed and determined about the occult, bringing on a whole world of materials with her. Which was fine by Crowley, but it meant he didn’t immediately help himself to her resources. They aren’t all news to him, but he wanted to cross-reference. Back when Crowley first studied the occult, he did it right. He knew enough to sort out the tripe from the real, honest accounts, and he knew what worked and what didn’t. 

What concerns him now, however, is something very specific -- something he never studied as fully as he should’ve.

“Tell me,” he continues, just a little manic. “What’ve you got about angels?”

“Angels?” Anathema repeats cautiously, glancing around at his ‘workspace’ with a wary eye.

“Yes, angels,” Crowley says hurriedly. Grabbing a book, he opens it up to an old (and frankly poor) illustration. “I mean real ones. Wheels of eyes and wings and voices that make you go mad when you hear them speak.”

Maybe that last part explains his mania. It’s hypnotic, in a way. It brings him back to the beginning of it all: before he resigned himself to a fate of tricking desperate people for a high price. He used to care; he used to pride himself on studying these things and knowing it better than anyone, on seeing into a world that no one else had privy to. It felt good to get his fingers into it. To touch something dark and forbidden and to understand it, while it stayed shrouded to those around him. 

He always felt at home with monsters. 

“ _Real_ angels?” Anathema asks, trying to come closer but not wanting to step on anything -- a true feat. “Crowley. Anthony.” Oh, he hates that. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Never better. Feel grand. Are you listening to me?” Crowley says quickly. Flipping through the book, he finds another photo. This one is a little more flattering: at least there’s a face hidden in all the wings. Crowley jabs at it with his finger. “Angels.” 

Anathema holds her tongue for a moment, clearly choosing her words carefully before she speaks. “Is this about the job coming up?” she says, not because it’s the most pressing question, but because she wants for the answer to be ‘yes’ -- so that the following discussion can be a little more sane. 

“Job?” Crowley parrots stupidly, before his mind catches up. They’ve got work soon. Of course they do. They’ve had so much work they can’t keep track. “Uh.” Crowley scowls to himself. “Yeah. Maybe. Sort of.” 

Then it clicks in: the very troubling revelation… if angels exist, living and breathing and running bookstores on Earth… that means, by association, that demons are real too.

The burn on his cheek, now blistered over and decidedly angry looking, itches. Crowley resists the urge to scratch at it. 

“Well,” Anathema starts uneasily. “It’s hard to say. I’ll have to go through my books. Why don’t you get some sleep and I’ll get back to you in the morning?” 

“I’m not tired,” Crowley insists, and the very dark circles around his eyes and the too-soon fading effect of numerous cups of coffee says otherwise.

“Anthony,” Anathema says, somehow young enough to be his daughter but sounding like his mother. “Go to bed.”

Crowley obliges -- but only halfway. He takes a stack of books with him as he goes, unable to give up the ghost just yet. Even so, even with the embers of this old obsession being kicked up, sending flames licking at his belly, it isn’t one many tales of angelic glory or demonic plight that he falls asleep with. 

Instead, it’s a battered copy of Jules Verne, still loosely curled between his fingers even after he succumbs to sleep. 

\--

And he does sleep soundly -- perhaps unjustly so, given how his world’s been spun around in the last 24 hours -- but he sleeps, deep and dreaming of angels. One angel, actually, bright and golden and smiling down at him. Crowley made it all the way up to see him, since it seemed such a shame for someone like him to feel lonely...

“Crowley, wake up.”

“Nghhk?” utters Crowley inelegantly. Blinking several times, Anathema comes into focus where she looms over his bed. He’d fallen asleep midway through Nemo and Aronnax wandering the ocean floor, and Anathema looks like she’s gotten no sleep at all. 

“Wake up,” she demands, “Fell is here.” 

“He’s what?” Crowley blurts, abruptly sitting himself upright. He nearly tosses his copy of Verne right off the bed, and scrambles to catch it before it falls. 

“He’s _here_ ,” Anathema repeats, her voice hushed. “In our house. What exactly is going on, Crowley?” 

“Haven’t the foggiest. Wish I could tell you,” Crowley says hurriedly, though Anathema looks unconvinced. Smoothing his hair out with his hand, Crowley stumbles to his feet. “Put, uh -- put on tea or something. I’ll be right out.”

“I’ve already put on tea,” Anathema scoffs on her way out, as if offended by the implication. “Who do you think I am?”

Rushing to make himself look halfway presentable, Crowley squints in his mirror. He manages to smooth out his hair, but any outfit he tests gives a very clear image of Trying Very Hard. He settles for something simpler: the usual outfit he wears when he’s working. Crowley watched _The Exorcist_ at a very impressionable time in his life, and the image of the old, weathered priest in his sleek black ensemble and hat never left him.

He’s always been a big believer in looking the part.

When he enters the living room, Aziraphale has the Them seated on the couch before him. With a flourish, Aziraphale makes a coin appear from Brian’s ear, and the only one who looks remotely entertained is Adam.

“That’s a nice trick,” he praises. “How’d you do it?”

“It’s not a trick,” Aziraphale insists, his voice adopting a theatrical tone. “It’s magic.” 

“It was up his sleeve,” Pepper counters blandly, her cheek smushed against her palm as she leans dramatically into the side of the couch. “Mr. Crowley has better sleight of hand -- and he just uses it to shoplift.”

“Oy,” Crowley chides sharply as he steps into view, feeling heat creeping up his neck. A child outing his petty crimes to a literal angel should be unbearable, but Aziraphale only scoffs. 

“I know about that bad habit already,” Aziraphale reminds, giving him a clear once-over. “How are you faring with Captain Nemo?” 

Aziraphale smiles at him, smug and knowing, and Crowley weakens like a fool. _Miserably_ , he wants to say. _We’re two alike souls, me and Nemo, sinking down, down down and getting lost. Except he has some grace about it. I might just drown in the depths of you._

Instead of that, he says, “Good,” like an idiot. 

Aziraphale nods his head, neatly folding his arms behind his back, and his smile spreads. “I was wondering if we could talk?” he asks. “It’s about our mutual business.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Crowley agrees awkwardly, abruptly aware that he doesn’t have a ‘professional’ space to discuss ‘business’ in the slightest. The house is broken into his room, Anathema’s room, and the mutual space of the living room and kitchen, which bare a mismatch of Crowley’s limited aesthetic choices and Anathema’s messy, cluttered witchery. 

“Uh,” Crowley utters awkwardly, “maybe we ought to go out…”

“Oh!” Aziraphale brightens up like he’s his own personal sun. “What a grand idea. Let’s have lunch!” 

The absurdity of it snaps Crowley back to the present. Aziraphale’s face is lit up in a huge smile, and he quickly retrieves his coat from where he left it at their door. 

“Lunch?” Crowley repeats stupidly. 

“Yes; lunch! I can tell you all about it!” Aziraphale insists. “My treat!” 

\--

“I must apologize for not coming sooner,” Aziraphale says as his meal is placed in front of hm. “I was in a little bit of a panic before I realized that you stole my first edition copy of _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_ \--” 

“Borrowed,” Crowley corrects over what’s probably his third cup of coffee. He’s had a stubborn shake in his hands since they left the house, and paradoxically, the coffee’s been calming him down. 

“Borrow-- I’m not a library!” Aziraphale reminds indignantly, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Mind you, it’s not the most elusive book in my collection, but it’s still quite the find. Most of them burned back in 1872--” 

“You were there for that?” Crowley interjects, still disbelieving, and Aziraphale gives a little shrug.

“Was I there for the Great Boston Fire of 1872? No, not specifically,” Aziraphale replies patiently, neatly spinning his pasta onto his spoon. “I was mostly still around London, you see. I haven’t spent much time in America, to be quite honest with you. I suppose I should get around to it.”

This is insane. The trembling is back in his hands and he sips his coffee. “It’s not the best book anyway,” Crowley says, to change the subject. He feels foolish: here he is, demanding Aziraphale to identify himself, and now whenever a new little detail arises, he’s so thrown out of sorts that he needs time to process it. 

“You don’t like Jules Verne? Oh, but he’s quite lovely,” Aziraphale says, then he pauses, wincing a little bit. “Well. When the novels lack the stereotypes.” 

“It’s all about… sea life,” Crowley says, waving his hand a little to try to get the shakes out of it. “Pages and pages going on and on about it. Nothing even happens!”

“It’s about _more_ than that,” insists Aziraphale, and Crowley peers at him in disbelief. 

“Are you sure? Because I’m reading a lot about cephalopods,” Crowley counters dryly. 

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale states firmly. He takes another mouthful of pasta, humming a little contented noise as he swallows. He takes a little sip of his water to follow it, dabbing his lips on his napkin again. “Besides, I thought you didn’t like reading in the first place.”

“I was making fun of you,” Crowley clarifies simply. “I do a lot of reading; I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t do my research.”

Aziraphale makes a thoughtful hum of agreement at that, but then he glances at Crowley curiously. “And what has your research told you about angels?” 

Unsure how to tackle that particular subject, Crowley makes a drawn out, incoherent sound.

Crinkling his nose, he thinks about it, then he finally offers: “Probably nothing accurate,” he admits cautiously. “The Bible’s been put through the wringer so many times you can’t really give it much credit.”

Once he says it, he wonders if he’d made a mistake, but Aziraphale’s brows just raise in a manner which begs for a scoffing, drawled ‘tell me about it.’ 

“Believe me, I know,” Aziraphale replies, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get me started on the editing.”

Laughing, Crowley smirks at him over his coffee cup. “So, were you there for all that then, at least?” he asks. “Or some of it?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale answers, as if it’s obvious. “I’ve been here since Eden.” 

The casual way Aziraphale says it almost makes it worse for Crowley. He speaks these things, these little bits of poetry, as if it’s nothing at all. Crowley is struck silent for a moment, his hand tightening around warm ceramic.

“What was it like?” he asks, unable to help himself.

“Oh, just lovely,” Aziraphale says, his body moving in a wistful sigh. The affection on his face wavers, however, then turns to something more somber. “A bit lonely, though.” 

Crowley pauses, watching as Aziraphale becomes very focused on his meal. Is that part of this? How long has Aziraphale been on Earth, and no one has noticed him? Since the very beginning, apparently, and that’s centuries upon centuries to spend without a single soul who knows him for what he really is… _who_ he really is.

Is that why he’s so keen to talk to Crowley now? When he likely shouldn’t?

“Say, you’re not going to… get in trouble for this, are you?” Crowley ventures warily. “Talking to me about all this?” 

Colour rises to Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he shrugs, but it hardly seems confident. “Well, I did try to erase your memory,” he says, sounding like he’s still trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. “So no one can fault me for not making the effort. Besides… maybe it’s gone out of fashion in the last few centuries, but angels used to speak to humans all the time! To help them with their… holy work.”

Crowley laughs. It’s unkind, but he really can’t help himself. Showing too many teeth, he grins hugely at Aziraphale. “Holy work?” he parrots. “Is that what you call my business, angel?”

Aziraphale’s face turns a darker shade of red, and he shuffles his posture in his seat. “Come now, surely you did try to be legitimate at one point,” Aziraphale reminds, “wouldn’t you like to try that again?” 

“I have _never_ been legitimate,” Crowley retorts bluntly. “Even back when I believed in it, a part of me always knew that it was all in people’s heads. I ignored it since _I_ wanted to believe too… but the reality is that all of it stems from paranoid anxiety and I was just joining the game. I didn’t like it, but…” 

Crowley catches himself rambling, and winces, cutting himself off with a gulp of coffee. To be honest, this is a conversation he hadn’t wanted to pursue too deeply, because if Aziraphale is here, then Heaven is real, and so is God and so is the reality that Crowley has to one day pay for everything he’s done in this world. 

Funny how believing in monsters has been easier than believing in God. 

“Anyway,” he says, “if the excuse works for you, then that’s great, but maybe don’t give me any undue credit. I’m not a saint, okay? I’m a con man, and a damn good one at that.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale doesn’t look in the least bit discouraged. He twirls the last bit of his pasta into his spoon, and his tone is smooth as butter. “In that case, you wouldn’t be interested in the very real spike in demonic activity in London as of late?” he asks innocently. “Or finding the origins of that very real demon you saw me casting out? Because I certainly wouldn’t ask a con man for assistance. I would, however, ask an exorcist and master of the occult.”

Placing the last mouthful of his food deliberately on his tongue, Aziraphale maintains eye contact as he chews and swallows, and Crowley narrows his eyes at him from behind his glasses. 

“You actually want me to help you?” he asks skeptically. “...why?” 

Shrugging, Aziraphale rests his silverware neatly beside his plate. He takes his time, wiping his mouth with his napkin (as if he even had so much as a crumb on his lips), before he speaks.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale explains, speaking with a very deliberate effort to seem matter-of-fact rather than affected. “You’re here, and you’ve seen me for what I am, so… well, it certainly seems a bit serendipitous, don’t you think?”

Crowley isn’t sure he wants to think on that too deeply. He’s too hung up on God existing at all, much less the idea of God deliberately putting him together with an angel. The blister on his cheek itches again, and he resists the urge to scratch at it. 

“I’ve been working alone for six thousand years,” Aziraphale adds, his voice wavering just a little. “So, maybe it’s a bit selfish, but for once I should like some company.” 

That’s much easier on his ears. Crowley smiles fiendishly and he leans forward, reaching his hand over the table. 

“Deal,” he says, unable to help fixating on how warm Aziraphale’s hand is when it gently clasps his own.

\--

“All I’m saying is,” Anathema reiterates for the umpteenth time, “after working with you for three years, I should be riding shotgun.”

“We can switch if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers happily, and Crowley feels heat climb up his neck. 

“Frankly,” Crowley objects, “until Miss Device obtains holy graces with which she can sense and smite down any evil I may drive into… she can sit in the back seat.”

Sighing, Anathema folds her arms across her chest, scowling out the window but offering no further argument. Crowley keeps his eyes forward with sheer determination, but he can’t help noticing the small smirk on Aziraphale’s lips where he sits beside him.

Maybe working together was a mistake; Crowley is sufficiently distracted. The sunglasses do well to hide most of that, luckily, and since Anathema is always happy to do most of the talking with customers, hopefully very little will give his absentmindedness away. He should be more attentive; house calls for exorcisms always end up as a lot of work: rooms need to be trashed, light need to filter, voices need to be raised… the whole nine yards. Crowley usually pulls out all the stops for these ones, but he’s been… preoccupied.

His head full of wings.

Crowley risks a glance at him, and Aziraphale is watching the countryside as they drive along. The sun filters through the foliage, casting over Aziraphale unevenly, and he looks like he’s carved out of marble -- but at the same time, he looks so warm… 

“Can you stop?” Crowley asks abruptly.

As if startled out of a reverie, Aziraphale blinks several times at him. “Stop what?” Aziraphale asks innocently.

“Doing that.”

“Doing _what_?” 

Crowley’s face burns, and he shakes his head. “Forget it.”

It’s bad enough having Aziraphale here, and even worse is the implications involved. He can’t just walk in and wonder if it’s the real deal this time -- his own paranoia is getting the better of him. He just needs to go in, meet the parents, and work as if Aziraphale isn’t even here.

Which is hard to do, when he’s sitting there distracting him very… distractingly. 

“Okay, typically an exorcism goes like this,” Crowley says, talking business to keep himself on track. “It’s not a demon. It’s a poor, mentally unwell grandmother who just needs a proper diagnosis, or a rebellious teenager looking for attention, or--”

“Or it’s a demon,” remarks Aziraphale coyly. 

Scowling, Crowley takes his eyes off the road for long enough that Anathema worriedly pats his shoulder. He swats at her hand and reluctantly turns his gaze forward. “Never, in all of my years of work, has there been an actual demonic possession,” Crowley reminds. 

“That you know of,” Aziraphale argues, and Anathema’s gentle pat on his arm turns into a harsh grip.

“He’s got a point, Crowley,” she says, ignoring the undignified ‘ow’ that Crowley growls from the bite of her nails through his coat. “We say it’s all for the show, but what if--”

Swatting at her, Crowley fumes. “I’m about to throw the both of you out of this car,” he threatens darkly. “This is still my job, all right? We do it my way until divine intervention--” he rolls the words with dripping sarcasm, “--is proven necessary. Okay?”

Crowley tries to pull himself together after the pleasantries are through and they reach the bedroom. Anathema closes the door behind them, already scribbling on the painted wood with chalk, while Aziraphale stands back and observes. Which suits Crowley fine; it gives him a clearer head as he takes in the scene around them. This young girl doesn’t look particularly demonic where she lays in her bed. Though, he could imagine any unruly teenager would surely flip from docile to livid if three strangers entered their private space. 

Sighing, Crowley stretches his arms out: as if this whole endeavour is about to require him to be very limber. “Right. I know you’re not really sleeping,” he tells her outright. “So we can skip that part.”

Two very, very dark eyes open up to glare at him, and a frown touches Crowley’s lips. Maybe he’d been distracted, but he could’ve sworn the family he met outside all had blue eyes.

“You always think you’re so clever,” she says dryly. “Don’t you, Crowley?”

Behind him, the scratching of Anathema’s chalk goes silent. “Crowley?” she asks cautiously, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the girl in front of him.

“It’s a nice trick, isn’t it?” he muses loftily, beginning to leisurely pace in front of her bed. “Supposed to get me shaking in my boots, mh? Make me guess how you learned my name?” Crowley shakes his head, dragging out the sound as he shuts the notion down. “Nah. You’re smart, aren’t you? Overheard who your parents were calling in? Read it in their schedulers? It’s not that hard to believe. Yes, I’m Mr. Crowley; nice to meet you.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says cautiously.

“Is there an echo in here?” Crowley mutters, whipping back to look at him. “What?” 

But when he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face--

“You really didn’t think all this would catch up to you, Crowley?” the girl, who now sounds nothing like a girl, asks darkly. “You don’t think we’ve been paying attention? Especially now that you’ve gotten extra company?” 

Something edges up Crowley’s spine: a grim, icy feeling that’s gruesome and somehow familiar. The girl looks at him like she’s looking _through_ him, and her smile doesn’t fit properly on her face.

“What does that mean?” Crowley asks, though he dreads the answer. 

“Don’t play dumb, Crowley,” she scolds, and her anger seems to infect the room around them. All light snuffs out, and Crowley is nearly thrown back, a tangible _wave_ booming from the girl’s throat as she speaks in another being’s voice. “Hell has a special place just for you, and no one else can fill it. We’ve got you now and it’s just a matter of time. Did you really think you could just _slither_ away?” 

What?

“You’re doomed,” she continues, a chorus of other distorted, strangled voices bleeding in. The push is getting stronger now, and even as Crowley digs his heels in, he skids backwards. Stupidly, he lifts his arms, as if that could shield him from whatever energy is pulsing forth from the girl’s possessed mouth. “No amount of sigils or prayers or Heavenly hosts can change that now.” 

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” Aziraphale says shortly, stepping forward as if untouched by the phantom current that’s forcing Crowley back. He approaches, bright and haloed with his wings spreading open, and when he reaches to touch her--

“Wait,” Crowley objects, trying to reach for him -- but Aziraphale already connects.

“ _Begone_ ,” Aziraphale commands, laying a gentle hand on her forehead, “if you would be so kind.” 

\--

“It knew my name.”

With Aziraphale and Anathema seated tensely on the living room couch, Crowley paces from one side of the room to the other. Two sets of eyes follow him, back and forth, and at first neither of them seem brave enough to speak. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley’s stomach twists at the endearment. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke.”

“Especially indoors,” Anathema adds.

Great. Now there’s two of them. Crowley takes a deliberate, obnoxious drag, and exhales it dramatically on purpose.

“Lung cancer is the least of my worries,” Crowley reminds. Never mind that Aziraphale healed that out of him -- a fact that aches, aches, _aches,_ like a personal torment but Crowley can’t focus on that just yet. “I’m on Hell’s personal hit list. Why is that?” 

Silence answers him, which is reassuring, and Crowley paces again. 

“Maybe I was right,” Anathema muses quietly, as her gaze drifts left-to-right with Crowley’s strides. “Maybe… all the time, we’ve been exorcising demons without even knowing it.” Shrugging, she winces at him. “Is it that unreasonable? We still do all the work. We go through the steps. We draw the symbols. We say the words…”

Scoffing disbelievingly, Crowley’s hand shakes a little when he plucks his cigarette from his mouth. “Oh, so I’m to believe,” Crowley starts sourly. “That, unconsciously, I’ve been so thorough and so capable of ridding true, _real_ evil from this world… even though I’ve been utterly convinced that it’s all hogwash… that they’ve sent literal demons after me?” 

Wincing where he sits, Aziraphale folds his hands together. “It seems that way,” Aziraphale says quietly. 

“Great,” Crowley replies, nodding his head vigorously. “Great. I’m going to go straight to Hell and it’s not even on purpose.” 

Jumping to her feet, Anathema points a firm finger at him. “You’re not going to hell,” Anathema insists, then -- worriedly -- she glances back at Aziraphale. “Is he?”

“Not if I can help it, no,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley…

Crowley at last stops his pacing and just looks at him. He doesn’t feel like he’s earned any of this. What has he done? Made a fool of himself? Over and over? Why is Aziraphale so set to defend him? Is that just his angelic nature, trying to protect all that he can, or is it…

Crowley wonders how naive he’s being. 

“I want to do some research,” Aziraphale says, rising from the couch and adjusting his vest idly. “Just to be sure there’s not something I’m missing. Then I’ll be back before you know it.”

Aziraphale approaches him, and Crowley goes very still. “Will you do one thing for me?” Aziraphale asks softly. “In the meantime?” 

Crowley almost says ‘ _anything_ , _’_ but what he says instead is: “Sure.” 

Smiling oh so sweetly, Aziraphale physically plucks the cigarette from Crowley’s hand, and magically -- surely -- vanishes the pack it came from, given the abrupt absence in Crowley’s pocket. 

“Stop smoking, dear,” he chastises, and then he’s gone.

\--

It must be Aziraphale’s influence that makes him sleep. When he finally closes the final page of Jules Verne and succumbs beneath the covers, he sleeps deep and surprisingly dreamless. He doesn’t stir until sunlight drifts through the window, and he groans as it beats down on his face. 

Reluctantly, Crowley forces himself out into the world. He dresses, only with the imminent arrival of Aziraphale as a motivator, and he still looks mostly asleep when he steps out into the kitchen. Coffee will make him a regular functioning human again.

Except maybe he won’t need it. When he opens the door, the Them are waiting for him. The three of them -- minus Adam -- are standing in a perfect, uniform little line, utterly unmoving and indeed very startling. Crowley jumps, hissing out an exhale to stop himself from yelping. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley demands, very much awake as he clutches at his forehead. “Nice work. Very spooky. How long were you waiting for me to wake up?”

“Oh, we’ve been waiting a long time, Crowley,” Brian says, without Brian’s voice. “You have no idea.”

“Centuries, Crowley,” Pepper says icily. “But you’re still not awake.”

“How long is it going to take for you to figure it out?” Wensleydale asks coldly. “You’re supposed to be smart, Crowley.” 

Oh… oh no.

“You can’t do this,” Crowley starts lowly, his voice dark and accusatory. “No. No. Not to kids. Not _these_ kids.”

“Please,” the ghost in Brian’s mouth sneers. “We’re not interested in these puppets.” 

“They’re just useful,” Not-Pepper adds.

“It’ll be no fun to punish you if you don’t know your crime, Crowley,” Not-Wensleydale explains sourly. “And oh, how we’ve been waiting to punish you…”

“Okay!” Crowley says, holding up his hands disarmingly. “Okay! I know what I’ve done. I didn’t realize it at first -- which is what’s got you all riled up, isn’t it? Embarrassing, isn’t it? Someone culling out your ranks without even meaning to do it? Quite the blow to the ego, I imagine.” 

All three of them, with their dull, demonic eyes, just stare at him. 

“He still doesn’t get it.” 

“I thought you were smart.” 

“Crowley,” Not-Brian sighs, grinning fiendishly as he chuckles. “You really don’t get it? Your parlour tricks haven’t been exorcising anyone. That’s not why we’re here.”

“You’re the one that got away, Crowley,” Not-Pepper croons. 

“We’re here to bring you back where you belong,” Not-Wensleydale taunts. “Well. For a little while anyway. Before your inevitable destruction.” 

What? 

“No.” Crowley winces, taking a step back. “That -- that doesn’t make any sense.” A thudding starts between his temples, the blister on his cheek throbbing, and Crowley feels abruptly like he might vomit. 

“Guys?” 

Anathema and Adam, arms full of grocery bags, stare at them from the entryway. “Guys? What’s happening?” Adam asks, and his brows furrow. “Why are you scaring Mr. Crowley?” Before Crowley can utter out a warning, Adam speaks with firm finality: “Leave him alone.”

All three of them jerk, like puppets with clipped strings. Pepper whips her head around, Wensleydale checks his glasses, and Brian just stares dumbly as if he’s barely noticed the shift at all. 

“Crowley?” Anathema utters faintly. “What’s happening?” 

But Crowley doesn’t answer. He can’t. He pushes past her, ignoring the call of his name as he pockets the keys to the Bentley. 

\--

The haphazard parking job he leaves behind on the way to the bookshop will get him a ticket at best and an accident at worst, but Crowley can’t bring himself to care. When he reaches the door, it doesn’t relent to his frantic yanking, and he shakes the handle viciously before he resorts to pounding his fist on the door instead.

“Aziraphale!” he shouts desperately. “Angel, let me in!” 

The shop is dark inside, turning the windows into black mirrors, and when he looks at himself, Crowley pauses. He looks haggard, to say the least, but there’s something else. The detail is hard to determine in the vague, foggy reflection that the window provides, but his blister has broken through, and something dark lurks underneath it. 

God, Crowley thinks, his nails scratching at the last lingering pieces of skin -- shedding the layer like a--

Like--

Crowley wants to throw up, and the only thing that stops him is the front door swinging open. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, his eyes wide with concern. “My dear boy, what’s happened to you?” 

Crowley can’t bring himself to answer. He pushes past Aziraphale, rushing into the bookshop and whipping his head around. “Mirror,” he demands frantically. “Where do you keep a mirror?”

“A mi-- well, at the back,” Aziraphale offers cautiously, “there’s a restroom. But Crowley--”

Crowley doesn’t linger. He rushes forward, practically kicking the door open as the goes. Slapping the lightswitch with his palm, Crowley pulls his glasses to his forehead, gawking at himself. The skin underneath the blister is shiny and pink, and the dark symbol adorning it is unmistakable: a twisting, coiled figure, exposing him for what he is-- 

A serpent. _The_ serpent. The damn fool beast who had one small conversation with an Angel and then he _ran_ , as far as he could… so much that he left his own mind behind-- and he changed his shape, made himself something simple and ordinary and _human_ because it’s surely hard to run without a pair of legs… 

Aziraphale’s hand touches his shoulder and Crowley nearly jumps out of his newly realized skin. Whipping around in the small space of the bathroom isn’t the most well-advised idea, since he sends several things flying and he turns to face Aziraphale. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps, startled and perplexed. “Crowley, what in Heaven’s name is going on?” 

“Oh, nothing about Heaven,” Crowley groans, his heartbeat pounding. “Please don’t talk to me about…”

His eyes sting, as if he’s so terribly close to tears -- but Crowley fears it’s actually something else. Crowley pulls his glasses back down to conceal it, his hands trembling. Memory swirls back on him, twisted and disorienting, and he feels sick. Did it really take him this long to find Aziraphale again? He’d been so afraid of the way Aziraphale made him feel that he fled for six thousand years, burying his whole past behind him, locking it away even from himself? 

What kind of miserable idiot falls not only once but _twice?_ Is that how the hierarchy goes? From angel to demon to human? 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale utters, his eyes weakening. He’s so gentle when he reaches out, the tips of his fingertips touching his tattoo. “Your face…” 

His eyes flicker, drifting over him, and Crowley’s heart twists miserably. Is he piecing it together? Is he remembering--

“You’re going to leave me,” Crowley announces dismally, as the realization hits, and Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. 

“What? Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, his gaze drifting over Crowley’s face as if looking for an answer there. “Why would you say something like that?” 

“Aronnax,” Crowley utters dully, feeling like he’s stuck in some terrible dream, “he leaves Captain Nemo.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale just stares at him, and his shoulders slump. “You finished reading it,” Aziraphale realizes softly. “Crowley. The two of us aren’t--”

“Because Aronnax is good and Nemo isn’t,” Crowley continues, as if he hadn’t heard him. His eyes burn, like his blister did before, and he can’t deny what it means this time. “Nemo can’t change his nature; he’s being hunted and goes somewhere Aronnax can’t follow.” 

Down, down into the depths, full of madness and darkness, descending with one final plea: _O almighty God! Enough! Enough!_

Is that what’s going to happen to him? Hell realized he ran away, fled into the image of a mortal’s skin, and now he’ll be dragged back down from where he came, and no plea to God will make any difference--

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pleads, cupping his face in his hands. “Please. You’re not making any sense! That’s not who we are--” 

“Do you know who I am?” Crowley counters, his voice picking up speed as his pulse thuds in his ears.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale chides, trying to laugh a little as if to diffuse the horror that’s gripping Crowley. “You’re…” Aziraphale pauses, his fingers gently tracing the outline of his tattoo, and his eyes weaken. Realization dawns so vividly on his face, and Crowley’s entirely posture slumps.

“Crowley, that can’t be,” Aziraphale manages quietly.

Giving no room for argument, Crowley lifts his glasses. He doesn’t need to check the mirror to confirm the change: he knows they’re slitted and golden, the way they’re supposed to be; the way they’d been in the Beginning -- the same eyes he had when he first looked at Aziraphale, with so much adoration that it drove him mad. 

“Crawly,” Crowley confirms miserably. “That’s why they’re after me. That’s why they won’t let it go.” 

Once he starts talking, once the magnitude of everything he’s buried drifts back, Crowley starts speaking and he can’t stop. “I saw you, in Eden, and you were so…” Crowley bites his lip, and he can’t help himself. “I’d never felt like that. You did something to me, and I… well, I didn’t very much want to be a demon anymore. But what could I do about it? Not like I could climb back up to Heaven just because of an angelic infatuation; that doesn’t count much for redemption. So, I… I ran. Well, slithered to start. Then I thought: maybe humans aren’t so bad, and you were terribly fond of the lot, so then I changed, and I hid, and I think… I think I made myself forget. I convinced myself it was real.” 

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, his hands carrying a little shake as they grip tight on his coat. “I missed you,” he admits tightly. “Without even knowing it. I missed you for six thousand _bloody_ years--”

He doesn’t even get the chance to finish the confession. Aziraphale pulls him in, closing those last remaining inches between them to crush their mouths together. Moaning, Crowley scrambles his hands over Aziraphale’s chest, one leaving to bury into the short, soft strands of his hair. 

Aziraphale tastes like something sweet. It should be almost painfully cliche, but Crowley is nearly driven out of his mind by the heat of Aziraphale’s tongue in his mouth. What does _he_ taste like? Stale coffee and cigarettes, probably, but Aziraphale just holds him close and kisses him, deeper and deeper -- as if he can’t get enough of him--

“I won’t leave you,” Aziraphale breaks the kiss to murmur the promise against his mouth, and Crowley feels so lightheaded that it’s a modern marvel that he stays upright.

“Okay,” Crowley gasps thickly. “Right, hold on--” 

His hand gives up its anchoring grip on Aziraphale’s hair to swipe upwards with a deliberate snap. It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen Aziraphale’s bedroom before, or that he doesn’t know where it sits in relation to the bookshop. With a little miracle and a whim, they’ve toppled into his (unsurprisingly plush) bed, and Crowley beams up hugely at him.

“What-- oh _really_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale tsks as if offended, scowling down at him as he drawls disbelievingly. “It’s all come back to you now, has it?” 

“Less talking,” Crowley chastises, fully intending to make good on literal centuries of lost time -- but even though Aziraphale doesn’t fight with Crowley’s attempts at tearing off his layers, he certainly doesn’t help. Nor does he shut up.

“You’ve just discovered you’re Hell’s Most Wanted and _this_ is your priority?” Aziraphale asks dryly, one perfectly sculpted brow arching.

“If I’m about to spend the rest of my days in an eternal pool of terror and torments then: yes, actually,” Crowley counters bluntly, tugging uselessly at Aziraphale’s vest with a snarl. “Really, angel, these buttons…” 

Crowley snaps again, willing them away, and Aziraphale startles with a scowl. 

“Can’t believe I forgot how to do that,” Crowley sighs happily, eagerly setting his hands on Aziraphale’s very bare, very warm skin. “That makes things so much easier.” 

“For _you_ , maybe,” Aziraphale points out in a scoff. He sounds very much like a man who’s realized that he’s abruptly been handed the greatest nuisance of all eternity, but he doesn’t protest as Crowley drags him in close with a delirious laugh of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

\--

It’s dark by the time Crowley wakes and wonders. He sits upright in Aziraphale’s bed, one hand holding a cigarette to his lips while the other lingers warmly on Aziraphale’s arm. His thumb rubs idly on the angel’s skin, tracing a little circle, as his mind works very, very hard.

“Oh, would you _please_ not do that in here,” Aziraphale implores tiredly, rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. “You’ll stink up the whole building.”

“You could miracle it away,” Crowley reasons flatly without missing a beat, though he’s only half engaged in the conversation. He’s busy: eyes slitted and unfocused as he thinks, thinks, thinks…

Beside him, Aziraphale scoffs. “Listen to you,” Aziraphale notes, not necessarily disapproving. “Amnesia for six thousand years and now you’re ready to use a miracle for everything.”

“S’how I got this,” Crowley offers, gesturing a little with his cigarette, but Aziraphale snaps and it’s promptly vanished (along with all its unsavoury scents). Sweeping his hand in to take its place, Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s fingers securely as he drags him down close again. Unable to begrudge the loss of his vice, Crowley goes easily, falling into place on the bed at Aziraphale’s side.

“You really are a troublemaker,” Aziraphale tells him sternly, and Crowley tries to ignore the prickle it sends up his spine. 

Very handsome. Very attractive. Very nice to be scolded. That’s fine. Unpackage that later. No time. Focus. 

“Well, that’s why I’ve got demons at my doorstep, after all,” Crowley muses. “Since I’m so terribly good at raising Hell.”

Laughing, Aziraphale makes a face: a stupid, beautiful, sunny face that Crowley could stare at forever. “I’d think you have that backwards, dear,” Aziraphale points out. “It’s not my area, but I’d think demons would be quite approving of you raising Hell. I believe what _you’re_ doing -- consciously or not -- is the opposite of that.” 

Crowley stares at him for a few reasons. One: out of stubborn, adoring fixation. Two: he’s afraid he’ll soon not get the chance to look at him ever again. Three: because he’s said something that knocks around in Crowley’s skull. 

It dawns on him slowly. As it does, his voice softens, and his eyes narrow at Aziraphale. “...what’s the opposite of raising Hell?” Crowley asks slowly.

“Mh?” Aziraphale intones, frowning to himself as he thinks about it. “Well. Depends on how you’d like to define it, I suppose.”

Slowly and surely, a grin overtakes Crowley’s face until it’s huge and fiendish. Leaning up, he kisses Aziraphale again, and the confusion on the angel’s face almost makes it better. 

“It’s pulling Heaven down,” he announces firmly, throwing the blankets off and scrambling to retrieve his clothes. 

\--

They take the Bentley (miraculously -- literally so -- untouched by tickets or by accidents) back to the house in a hurry. Crowley can’t explain how he knows what’s waiting for him, but he does -- and, despite it all, Crowley doesn’t feel an inch of dread.

It might have something to do with the literal angel at his left, walking with his arms folded neatly behind him. He looks like something else when he’s serious: like some statue from Ancient Rome, stern and noble but still soft somehow… tender even when fierce.

“Let me do the talking,” Crowley tells him, his hand fitting around the door knob. “Okay?” 

Aziraphale gives him a wary look. “You know what you’re doing?” he asks cautiously. 

Crowley tries to maintain a straight face for as long as possible, but then he shrugs. “Vaguely,” he announces, not waiting for Aziraphale to splutter a protest before he flings the door open.

The house is dark, and darker still the deeper they go. A chill threatens to raise the hair on his neck, accompanied by a faint buzzing that has nothing to do with the garbage Crowley repeatedly fails to leave on the curb week after week. Seated at the kitchen table, Anathema Device lifts her head to scowl him. 

“Hello, Crowley,” she sneers. “You coward.”

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley greets, bending at his middle in an exaggerated bow. “Love what you’ve done with your hair.” 

“Shut it,” Beelzebub orders coldly, screwing Anathema’s face into an unpleasant snarl. “You think you’re funny now, Crowley, but time’s run out.”

“Couldn’t agree more, my Lord,” Crowley agrees merrily, pulling out a chair and making himself comfortable. Aziraphale doesn’t follow suit -- which is fine. He stays hovering at Crowley’s shoulder: tall and protective -- ever the guardian he was made to be. “Seems I hadn’t been myself lately, and we ought to put a few things straight.” 

Beelzebub scowls. The expression doesn’t fit right on Anathema’s face: lopsided and eerie. “You’re going straight to Hell,” she counters bitterly. “That’s all there is to say about it.”

Making a long, drawn out noise, Crowley scratches at his jaw. “Enh.. Not necessarily,” he says as if giving it some serious thought. “I think you might want to consider my friends in high places.”

Perfectly on queue, Aziraphale unfolds his wings behind him. The gesture is nothing but a display; Beelzebub could surely sense the angel for what he is the moment she laid eyes on him… but it makes Crowley feel better, as one wide, white wing curves around him: like a shield ready to defend him.

In the corner of his mouth, so very faintly that it could be missed, Aziraphale smirks at her -- and Crowley almost forgets he’s in a very life-or-death situation. 

“That’s just all the more reason to drag you down, Crowley,” Beelzebub points out dully. “You’re not very good at negotiating.”

“Oh, but I am,” Crowley counters coolly. The real Anathema would never allow this, but she’s not here, so Crowley stretches his legs out, resting his boots casually on the kitchen table. “Because, you see, it took awhile to get it all back, but my memory has returned in full force -- and with it, all the secrets of Hell. Which I’m sure my very heavenly counterpart--” Crowley gestures his hand towards Aziraphale, who rests his hand protectively on Crowley’s shoulder, “--is keen to tell his superiors.” 

He’s sure in her proper body, Beelzebub has a better poker-face. However, Anathema’s skin is new, and her ability to hide her feelings is considerably muddled. Her eyes widen, just enough, before a glare returns. 

“It’s been six thousand years,” she reminds coldly. “What can you _really_ know that’s relevant?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley says smoothly. “From what I remember of Hell, change is unbearably slow, and I’m willing to wager the old ways haven’t changed one iota.” 

For a moment, all she does is scowl, and Crowley meets her without flinching. Though his sunglasses rest neatly on his nose, he wouldn’t need their protection; he’s very good at resisting the urge to blink.

“What do you propose?” she asks, and tension unknots from Crowley’s belly.

“A truce,” Crowley says immediately. “You leave me alone; I leave you alone. It’s simple, really: dragging me to Hell for nothing but a grudge? That’s a bit selfish, isn’t it? Is that _really_ worth risking bringing all of Heaven down on your head?” 

“You--” she starts, and Crowley cuts her off before she can finish.

“Make the deal, and I’ll close up shop. No more exorcisms, blessings or investigations. Never even look at a piece of chalk again. You won’t even know I’m here. But if you don’t take it? I promise you, I can make myself ten times more troublesome dead than I would be alive.” Crowley offers a smooth, toothy smile. “Trust me, I’m very good at making myself a problem.” 

“That’s very true,” Aziraphale offers helpfully, with a mild wince of his own, and Crowley isn’t sure if he should thank him or not. 

A silence follows, long and uneasy, and Beelzebub holds her tongue. When she finally speaks, the distaste in her voice is almost palatable.

“Deal,” she says reluctantly, raising her chin as she looks at Aziraphale, addressing him directly. 

“He’s _your_ problem now,” she tells him dully. “Have fun.” 

With a sick snap, Anathema blinks back into herself. Blearily, she glances around the room, wincing as if the light stings her eyes. 

“What happened?” she asks weakly, glancing between the two of them as if waking from a strange dream. “Crowley?” After she looks at him for a moment, all of her coherency returns in a rush. “ _Crowley_. What are your feet doing on the table?!” 

“Welcome back,” Crowley replies simply, keeping his boots firmly where they are. Leaning back in his seat, he gazes up at Aziraphale adoringly. Aziraphale, however, doesn’t look half as pleased.

“All of Heaven?” he quotes skeptically, the hand on Crowley’s shoulder tapping thoughtfully with one finger. “You realize having an angelic affair with me isn’t the same thing as having all of Heaven at your beck and call, Crowley?” 

“I know that; she doesn’t,” Crowley replies simply. As Aziraphale’s handsome face twists up into a frown, Crowley groans. “Come on. It’s fine. It worked, didn’t it?” 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale allows reluctantly, though his face looks terribly pained, “but it’s cost you your career.” 

Scrunching his face up, Crowley shakes his head. “Nah, it’s fine,” he assures, reaching to cover Aziraphale’s hand with his own, squeezing down tightly. “Besides, I might be due for a change.” 

Crowley thinks on that for a moment. Tilting his head, he glances back at Anathema, who’s still blinking around the room as if she can piece together her lost time. 

“Hey,” he says, drawing her eyes back on him. “What would you say if I got back into the nanny business?” 

Staring at him, Anathema doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’d have to change your website,” she remarks bluntly. 

“And stop smoking,” Aziraphale prompts. 

Crowley frowns, giving that some considerable thought, and after a moment, he nods his head.

“I could work with that.” 

  
  



End file.
